The Kappa File
by Oliver Sands
Summary: Mark Stone has days to locate a file. However, no one who has seen the content of the file has lived to tell about it
1. Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE 

If Bobby Richards could see the future, he would not have agreed to take the computer hacking job that George Ray offered him that afternoon.

After dropping out of South Florida High School a year short of his graduation, Bobby spent most of his days alone in his single mother's apartment playing pirated computer games.

When he was bored, he spent the nights using the programming skills that he had developed during the past year to hack into online computers of major banks and businesses to steal their customers' email addresses. They usually fetched a good price on Nigerian scammers' websites.

While Bobby initially had doubts after reading George's online advertisement, he had responded because he knew that rush jobs usually paid well. He was right. The twenty thousand dollars that George was offering would come in handy for the muscle car that he wanted to buy.

They were sitting at a mom and pop diner in North Miami, discussing the deal.

"As I wrote you earlier in my text messages, we are a private company and we suspect that another company might have stolen our work. We simply want to make sure that we're right," George told him. "We need someone with good programming skills to take a look at some files and emails on the company's computer before they delete them."

"Once I hack in, how will I recognize your files?" Bobby asked. He was tapping his fingers nervously on the table, his brown eyes surveying George's expensive suit and tie. Bobby had imagined him to be in his twenties. However, George looked just like Bobby's grandfather. He was old, bald and skinny.

Suddenly, the sound of glass shattering on the floor next to them interrupted their conversation and made them turn to look at the young child responsible for the noise. She was sitting with her family at the table behind them. Seeing all eyes on her and the broken ketchup bottle by her feet, she started to cry loudly, causing her mother to pick her up in her arms.

They waited for the noise to die down before continuing with their talk.

"Our company's files were stolen within the past two months. So download anything that was placed on their computer during that time," George said, before adding, "After you finish with the download, you'll write me a report identifying the files and any emails that talk about those files."

"How do I know that you'll really pay me?" Bobby asked him, his fingers now playing with the small gold earring in his earlobe.

George glanced at Bobby. The whole scene seemed comical to him. Looking at Bobby's intricate dreadlocks, George felt as if he was being interviewed by a member of a youth reggae music group.

"You won't have to give me the report until I give you all of the money," George assured him. "In fact, I've even brought with me the three thousand dollars we agreed on, for you to start the work. I'll give you the rest of the money when you give me the report."

Then George opened the silver briefcase he was carrying, took out a brown leather pouch, and handed it to Bobby.

The expensive pouch caught Bobby's attention. He grabbed it from George's hands, and brought it under the table to his lap, hiding it from view. He quickly unzipped it and peered inside. The sight of the stack of the twenty-dollar bills and the cell phone brought a smile to Bobby's face. Most of the online computer hacking jobs that Bobby had done in the past had only earned him a few hundred bucks. _At least I'm being paid real money this time_, he thought.

###

A few days later, Bobby texted George to tell him that he had downloaded the files.

"You're a genius, Bobby," George texted back. "When you write the report, make sure all emails and files that you found are included."

"No problem," Bobby responded. "I'll bring the report to you next week on a disk."

"Good," George replied. "I don't want people to know what you've been doing for me. So, meet me behind the old thrift shop and I'll bring you the rest of the money."

The next meeting could not come fast enough for Bobby, who also shared George's concerns. Only very few people knew of his hacking habits and he wanted to keep it that way.

He was able to complete the report in two days, and it also included a description of another major hacking incident that Bobby discovered had taken place on the company's computer.

When the time for the meeting came, Bobby, who was running late, hopped on his bicycle with the report on a disk, and an empty backpack to carry the rest of the money.

The thrift shop was less than two miles from Bobby's apartment, in an area that was home to immigrants from the Caribbean and South America. It was getting dark, and Bobby, who was worried that George might not wait for him, decided to take a short cut.

As Bobby furiously pedaled through several neighborhoods towards his destination, makeshift shops selling illegal wares, including cigars from Cuba and lottery tickets from Mexico and Haiti, were already closing their doors for the evening.

When he finally reached the thrift shop, it was almost past the time for his meeting. The thrift shop was at the corner of an old strip mall that had already survived beyond its lifespan. The shop was the mall's only tenant.

There were no cars in the pothole-filled parking lot. As agreed, Bobby rode to the small deserted alley in the back of the building. When he reached the back of the shop, he paused by the shop's rear metal door, with his left foot on the pedal and his right foot on the ground to steady himself. He looked around but George was nowhere to be found. The nauseating smell of rotten eggs and fruits coming from the nearby overflowing commercial dumpster was so overwhelming that Bobby could hardly breathe. Once or twice, he had to swat the air with his hand to chase away annoying flies buzzing around him.

Bobby was about to leave, when a tall man with a crew cut stepped out from behind the dumpster.

His appearance surprised and frightened Bobby, who was debating whether he should speed away. _What if George got sick and sent the man instead with the money?_

"Where is George?" Bobby asked cautiously.

Before the man could respond, a sudden rustling noise broke the evening silence, startling Bobby. His left foot slipped off the pedal as he looked toward the trash pile.

Something was moving.

Bobby tightened his grip on the handlebars to stop them from shaking. Without warning, the thing jumped to the ground, causing Bobby's heart to skip a beat. It was a stray cat.

Bobby breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of the skinny animal, and turned and looked at the man, who had ignored the commotion.

"George could not come. He sent me in his place," he said. He looked like a wrestler, with large muscles bulging under his t-shirt. He was wearing black leather gloves that seemed too small for his large hands.

Seeing that the man came empty-handed, Bobby gathered his courage and said, "I don't know you who are. I'm not giving you any report until I get the money that George promised me."

"Yes you will, Bobby," the man said, as he pulled a gun from the back of his pants and pointed it at Bobby.

Fear seized Bobby when he saw the gun. "What are you doing? It's just a report."

"So give it to me," the man ordered him. His face was expressionless and his eyes were void of any emotion.

It was an order that Bobby knew he had no choice but to obey, if he wanted to live. Terrified, with his hands trembling, Bobby removed the backpack hanging from his back, unzipped a small pocket and took out the disk.

The man grabbed the disk and looked at it quickly before looking back at Bobby, his weapon still raised at him.

"Can I go now? I promise that I won't call the police," Bobby said, fighting off his paralysis and trying not to look at the gun silencer pointed at his chest.

"Not until you tell me whether you made any other copies of this disk." The man's voice was monotone. It was as if he was reading from a bad script. Watching Bobby fidget on his bicycle, his lips curled up slightly in amusement.

"I didn't make any copies of the disk," Bobby lied. All he wanted now was to get out of there as quickly as possible. He was hoping the lie would help. It didn't.

"In that case, I don't need you anymore," the man said, before shooting Bobby three times in the chest.

The bullets shook Bobby's body violently, causing him to fall backwards awkwardly on the ground with the bicycle between his legs, tumbling and falling on his left ankle, breaking it.

Amazingly, Bobby did not feel any pain. He was lying on his back and felt wetness on his chest, but nothing else. Suddenly, he felt cold and sleepy. His eyes were closing. Under his eyelids, he could see crew cut man come and stand over him. Crew cut man was now smiling widely. When the last bullet entered Bobby's skull, he did not feel it either. He had already surrendered his life.

Once he was satisfied that Bobby was dead, crew cut man searched Bobby's pockets and took his wallet. He quickly pulled out a small bag of marijuana from his back pocket and put it in Bobby's right hand.

By the time the police found Bobby's body, crew cut man was gone, and the gun had already been dumped in a lake several miles away.


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

When the woman entered Mark Stone's law office in downtown Miami without an appointment, Mark was tempted to tell her to come back another day. It's not that he was busy. He had lost most of his clients in the past two months. The thing was, as a lawyer, he could not simply receive any visitor that happened to drop by. He had to keep up appearances.

"What can I do for you?" he asked the woman, as he invited her to sit down in one of the two red leather guest chairs in front of his desk. He was still debating what to do with his visitor. Her face reminded him vaguely of a picture that he had seen in a business magazine.

He could not simply chase her away, however, because Joan Couch, his bossy secretary, would be furious. Mark figured that it must be really important for Joan to allow the woman to intrude and disrupt his morning coffee.

She waited until Mark walked back behind his desk to sit down before responding. "Thank you for receiving me on such short notice, Mr. Stone. My name is Margaret Prentiss and I am the CEO of Prentiss Construction and Design and I need your help."

She was thin, attractive and looked very elegant in a conservative dress that screamed Fifth Avenue shops. She appeared to be in her early forties, with dark auburn hair kept in a tight bun, and a slight New York accent that reminded Mark of home.

"Call me Mark, Ms. Prentiss," he said. "I'll be glad to help. Just tell me what I can do for you." Mark was definitely not accustomed to this type of client. She smelled of money and power. She seemed the type who went to the big law firms and hired the most expensive lawyers.

Mark's law office, on the other hand, was a two-person operation and was on the fifth floor of an old building that needed a facelift. That made Mark wonder whether she had mistaken him for another attorney named Stone.

She paused as if she was taking a deep breath and, looking at Mark with warm gray eyes, she said, "I've seen your face in the paper. I know you're familiar with Chief Judge Jonathan Francis."

_I can't believe that she would bring this up. That slimy judge hurt my reputation and is responsible for me losing most of my clients, _Mark thought_. _He did not want to talk about it_. _"It was an unfortunate incident that happened two months ago."

"It was more than an incident," she insisted. "You spent two days in jail for contempt of court for telling the judge to shove the order that he was entering against your client. That's why I think that my company needs a lawyer like you. We recently sued Miami-Dade County over a seventy-five million dollar construction contract that the county awarded to our competitor. Judge Francis, who is the judge in the case, just ruled against us."

As she was explaining the reason for her presence, she smiled at Mark, revealing perfect white teeth, which beautifully contrasted with her dark shade of lipstick. Whether she knew that she had a disarming smile was impossible to tell.

Mark gently tapped the pen he was holding on the blank notepad in front of him on the desk. He did not intend to take any notes. He was leaning against taking the case.

"Ms. Prentiss," Mark began to say, ignoring her charming expression, "companies lose cases every day. I'm not sure why your case would be any different." His intuition was telling him that the case was trouble, and he wanted to find a tactful way to tell the woman that he did not want to get involved.

Instead of being offended, she widened her smile and leaned forward with calm poise. She seemed surprised but undeterred by Mark's doubts.

"The vote to award the contract was made by the county commissioners. There was a tie vote and the newly elected commissioner voted and broke the tie in favor of our competitor," she said. "We also suspect that the judge is friends with the new commissioner, but we can't prove it."

Listening to the woman, Mark definitely did not want to take the case. His intuition kept warning him that if he did, he would regret the decision.

Seeing the woman's eyes resting on his blank notepad, he lifted it up. He was pretending to scribble something when the phone on his desk rang, surprising them both. He apologized and looked at the caller ID. It was the building property manager calling on Mark's private line for the overdue rent. He ignored the call and turned off the ringer before resuming his conversation. "I still don't see how I can help you." He was trying his best to find a polite way to decline the case and, at the same time, not risk Joan's wrath.

Detecting Mark's reluctance, she tilted her head slightly towards him and lowered her voice, as if she was sharing a secret with him. "The lawyers in this town don't want to fight the county commission. Since you're originally from New York and are not afraid of the Chief Judge, I know that you can help us fight his order."

Although Mark was pleased by the confidence that she was exhibiting in him, he was still hoping to convince her that he was the wrong lawyer for her case. "What happened to the lawyer who represented your company in front of the judge? Why don't you just use him?" He was amused and impressed by the woman's persistence.

She leaned backward, turned sideways on the chair uncomfortably, and crossed her tanned legs before responding. "My old lawyer died in a car accident a couple of weeks ago."

The news of the lawyer's death surprised Mark, who now felt embarrassed by his behavior.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Mark said apologetically.

"That's okay," she said. Her smile then faded and her brow became furrowed as she continued her explanation. "Although we didn't hear from him, we thought that he was in court representing us. We only found out about his death when we went to his office to talk to him, after we heard of the judge's decision against us."

_Listen to your intuition. Bad omen, _Mark kept reminding himself. "I'm sorry about your company losing the case, Ms. Prentiss. But why do you think the new commissioner voted against your company? Could it be that he thought that your competitor could do a better job?" Mark was hoping that his skepticism would convince the woman to take her case somewhere else.

"Call me Margaret. We are larger and more experienced than the other company," she said, tilting her head very slightly to her left. She uncrossed her legs and shot Mark a confident glare, before adding, "We would have won, but when one of the commissioners abruptly resigned, the county had to have a special election and Mr. Manuel Garcia, the newly elected commissioner, voted against us."

Mark was restless inside._ Don't take the case. _

"I'm not sure that I'm the best person for your case. I don't handle government litigation," Mark said, finally giving in to his intuition and gathering the courage to turn her away.

Instead of being deterred, she said, "I understand that you've been losing clients because of Judge Francis' actions against you. Taking my case could also help restore your reputation." As Mark was about to protest, she quickly added, "I also know that it will be expensive and that you might have to appeal his decision all the way to the Florida Supreme Court. So I'm prepared to give you an initial retainer of thirty thousand dollars to cover your costs and your attorneys' fees."

_Thirty thousand bucks can go a long way, _Mark thought_._ He was amazed at Margaret's generous offer. Usually, his clients had to scramble to come up with a few hundred dollars to pay him. _ Don't be stupid Mark. You'll be able to pay your rent for months in advance and pay back everything you owe your secretary._

After listening to the offer, Mark thought again for one second and decided that male intuition was not that reliable after all. He then smiled widely, flipped the first page of his notepad, and said, "Okay Margaret, tell me what happened from the beginning."


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

As soon as Margaret left, Joan came to the door. At twenty-six years old, she was two years younger than Mark. She was tall and very pretty with jet-black hair and deep green eyes. Most of Mark's clients tended to be males and Mark wondered whether they chose his office just to see her.

"So what do you think?" she asked. She was wearing an attractive white linen dress and matching jacket. She did not enter the room. Instead, she remained standing at the door watching Mark, who was still seated behind his desk.

"She's pretty, but she's not my type," he answered. He was still irritated by Joan's decision not to consult with him before allowing Margaret to see him.

"I mean the case," Joan clarified. She had a grin on her face and did not make any excuses for the early unscheduled appointment.

It was possible that Margaret had made the appointment and that Joan forgot to put it on Mark's calendar, but Mark doubted that. Joan was not the careless type.

"I know what you mean, Joan." He raised his eyes from the notepad that he was holding to look at her. The corners of Joan's mouth were pointed upwards while her lips stretched just wide enough to reveal a smile that conveyed a sense of contentment. Mark, who had seen that amused look on Joan's face before, added, "I have a bad feeling about this."

Mark's warning caused Joan's smile to fade. "You didn't take the case?"

"Of course I took it," Mark replied, seemingly offended by Joan's lack of confidence in his decision-making skills. "I'm not stupid."

"I'm glad to hear that," she said, exhaling loudly. Her smile was back. "Maybe this case will help you get your mojo back."

Mark, who was annoyed by Joan's insult to his maleness, put the notepad down on the desk, leaned backwards in his chair, and said, "I didn't know that I lost my mojo."

She ignored Mark's reaction and looked at Mark's diplomas and law license that hung on the walls behind him. "You're a good attorney, Mark. You should not let Judge Francis get under your skin."

"Judge Francis gets under the skin of every attorney in town," Mark argued. "Have you seen his face? He looks like a Grinch stealing lollypops from kids at Christmas."

Mark's statement caused Joan to laugh. "Yes, but not every attorney who sees him goes to the slammer for contempt of court."

Although Mark knew that Joan was right, he did not feel like discussing his shortcomings this morning. _Sometimes she can be so irritating_, he thought. "I'll keep my cool the next time I'm in his courtroom. Are you satisfied now?"

"Great," Joan said, her face beaming with pleasure. "Now go and win one for the Gipper."

Joan's comment caused Mark to pause. He was going to say something, but decided that she might have a better comeback. Instead, he said, "I'm serious. I really don't feel good about taking the case."

"At least we'll be able to pay our bills," Joan told him. "We owe last month's rent and if we don't pay soon, our landlord will come after us."

Mark's private line then flashed. Looking at the number on the caller ID, he said, "This is the second time he's called this morning."

"We're beyond our grace period," she reminded him. "I'll prepare a check today for him."

Joan was very smart and had a no-nonsense attitude about her that Mark admired. She had been Mark's second client after he opened his office. At that time, she wanted a divorce from her new husband who was cheating on her. After the divorce, she came to work for Mark. It had been two years and Mark never regretted it.

"I know that you're right. We needed this case," Mark admitted. It's just that something is telling me that this case is not simply a legal case."

"Whatever happens, we'll deal with it," Joan assured him, before leaving to answer a phone call.

Mark's law office consisted of a large reception room where Joan's desk was also located, and Mark's office, which was behind the reception room. Fax and copy services were provided by the building at an additional cost.

When Mark left for the courthouse to look at the file in the Prentiss case, Joan was still on the phone. Mark knew that if he had to challenge Judge Francis' decision, based on the rules, he had to do it within thirty days. Two days had already passed and he had twenty-eight days left. He waved at her on his way out but she didn't notice.

Mark decided to walk. His law office building was two blocks away from the courthouse, which only handled civil cases. It was about 10:00 a.m. and the street was bustling with court reporters pulling their stenograph machines behind them, and attorneys in fancy suits and dresses who, like Mark, were also walking toward the courthouse building.

All along the street were buildings that housed attorney offices and other law related businesses. It was a hot morning and Mark, who had forgotten to leave his jacket at the office, was damp from perspiration when he reached his destination.

"Want your shoes shined today?" the old black shoe shiner asked him. He was seated outside the courthouse building by the front entrance. He was there almost every day and had become very familiar to Mark and many of the other attorneys. He never saw a pair of shoes that did not need shining, no matter how clean they were. Once or twice, Mark had used his services. Mark kindly declined. He was on a budget and could no longer afford this luxury.

After clearing security, he entered the clerk's office on the first floor. There was a line to the counter but the wait was short. After the assistant clerk brought him the file, Mark's review of its contents took only a few minutes.

There was nothing out of the ordinary in the court file. Prentiss Construction and Design had lost by default, because the attorney had not responded to pleadings and court orders.

Since the reason for the default was the attorney's death, any other judge would recognize that and set aside the default and let the case go to trial. But because of his history with Judge Francis, Mark did not trust him. He needed to investigate further.

Before leaving his office, he had written down the late attorney's home address, which was located in the Brickell area, an upscale neighborhood in the southern part of downtown Miami. It was only a short drive away. Mark then walked back to his office to pick up his car for the trip.

While Brickell was known as a residential neighborhood, that description was not completely accurate. The north end of Brickell was home to Miami's financial district. It was a section that contained some of the most luxurious high-rise office buildings in Florida, and housed the largest concentration of international banks in the United States.

Although it was past the time for the morning rush hour, Brickell Avenue, the main road through the area, was congested, with many luxury cars going in and out of covered parking garages, and traffic lights not staying green long enough to speed up the flow of traffic.

As Mark waited for one of the red lights to turn green at one of the avenue's busiest intersections, he wondered how an attorney who was simply working as a solo practitioner could afford to live in the area.

He was about to resume his slow drive, when sirens coming from two large emergency vehicles behind him forced him to move to the side. Two ambulances rushed past the expensive restaurants and prominent businesses that lined both sides of the avenue, and turned left onto a residential street far ahead.

When he realized that the traffic congestion had eaten up a large chunk of his morning, Mark swore under his breath and cursed county and city planning departments for the lack of alternative roads.

He drove further down until he reached his destination in a section of the avenue called "Millionaire's Row". The row was made up of many lavish homes and contained Miami's priciest apartments and condominiums.

The attorney's home was the second house from a side street. It was a large two-story architectural wonder with a grand circular driveway. A very expensive sports car was parked in front. Mark parked behind the car, went to the gigantic front door, and rang the bell.

Mark waited a few minutes and no one came to the door. He was going to ring the bell again when he heard some noise inside the house that sounded like footsteps. He waited a few seconds more. When the door opened, a young woman around his age came out.

"Can I help you?" she asked. The woman was a few inches shorter than he was. Her eyes were red, as if she had been crying. She wore a yellow blouse and a pair of brown shorts that revealed toned and sculpted legs.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, but I am an attorney for Prentiss Construction. I have been hired to continue a case that Mr. Curtis was handling..." he began, as he handed his business card to her.

She frowned at him and grabbed the card, glancing at it for a moment.

"Do you have any identification?" she asked, giving Mark back his card.

"Sure." Mark then pulled out his wallet and showed her his driver's license.

She examined it for a few seconds, handed it back to Mark and, with a more relaxed voice, said, "Come in."

As they closed the door behind them, Mark did not notice the blue Ford Taurus that had been following him since he left his office.


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

They entered the house through a lavish and spacious marbled foyer. The beauty of the interior was masked by the strange artwork hanging on the walls and the odd-shaped furniture that was placed in the wide hallway.

The young woman guided Mark to an imposing room with tall bookshelves that ran along the walls. They were stocked mostly with law books. At one end of the room, there was an expensive-looking mahogany desk with a huge black executive chair behind it. Facing the desk were two wide matching guest chairs with elevated arms. At the other end of the room, sat a long dark brown leather sofa. At each end of the sofa, were matching end tables.

The room was bigger than Mark's entire apartment.

"This was my father's office," the young woman explained, as she invited him to sit. She waited until Mark sat on the sofa before sitting next to him. She was attractive, with short hair, a small nose and tiny lips. Her nose was also red from excessive tissue use.

"I'm sorry about Mr. Curtis," Mark said, as he formally introduced himself. "My name is Mark Stone and I came here because I understand that he was representing Prentiss Construction in a major lawsuit against the county."

"Yes, he was," the young woman replied, her voice trembling. She had bags under her eyes, which Mark attributed to lack of sleep. "My Name is Daniela. John Curtis was my father. We were very close."

Reading the grief on her face, Mark apologized and conveyed his condolences, while faulting himself for jumping right into a business discussion when she seemed still in pain from her father's death_._

"That's okay," Daniela said. "Even though it's been a couple of weeks since he passed away, I still can't believe it."

As she talked, an alarm rang from somewhere inside the house, startling Mark.

She apologized, asked Mark to wait, and got up to investigate.

After she left, Mark stood up and walked over to the shelves to examine the books. They were the Southern Reporter editions that Florida lawyers used. He then looked at the pretentious desk. "This desk must cost more than all of the furniture in my office," he said to himself. Except for a computer monitor, a yellow notepad and a pencil, the desk was empty.

"This would not be my choice of furniture," she said, surprising him. He did not hear her come back to the room.

"Is everything okay?" he asked as he walked back to the sofa.

"It's nothing. It was the oven. I forgot that I had something inside. It's okay now."

She followed him back to the sofa and asked, "Where were we?"

"You were telling me about your father's death. What happened?"

She seemed in a daze. "The police said that my dad was drinking and was under the influence of the Ecstasy drug when his car veered off the road and fell in a lake, where he drowned." Her eyes were distant and her voice was cracking.

"I'm deeply sorry about your loss. I was very close to my grandmother when she died last year," Mark said, trying to console her. "I can understand how this must hurt."

Her eyes shifted from the walls behind the desk and the bookshelves that she was looking at, and she turned to look at Mark. It was as if she noticed him for the first time. Her eyes were hazel, and she had to move a strand of her light brown hair away from her face, in order to look at him.

"I don't believe what the police are saying," she said, with firmness in her voice. "You see, several years ago, my mother and my father went to a party and both were drinking. There was a crash and my mother, who was driving, died on impact. My father blamed himself and swore off alcohol ever since. My father was the picture of health, going to the gym every day, and he never took any drugs." She did not cry, but teardrops glittered from the corners of her eyes, which caused her to reach for the tissue on the end table.

"So what do you think happened?" Mark asked. _In times like these, people always fail to see the shortcomings of their relatives, _Mark thought_. Maybe her father had resumed drinking and was doing drugs, but no one knew about it_. However, Mark tried to appear sympathetic. He could tell that she was in a lot of pain.

"My father didn't have to work. He didn't take cases for the money," she said in a resolute manner. "My grandfather was a very wealthy art dealer who left a lot of money for him. My father only took cases that he believed would correct an injustice. I know that his death has to do with the Prentiss case."

Mark, who did not anticipate her allegation, raised his eyebrows and gazed intently at Daniela. "Why do you think your father's death had to do with the Prentiss case?" He did not want to appear indifferent, but there was a conspiracy theory for every weird and unfortunate accident.

She pursed her lips in a short moment of reflection, and said, "My father told me that one day, when everything about this case comes out, it will shake the political establishment."

Daniela's statement caused Mark to frown.

"Did he tell you what it was?" he asked, becoming more attentive to her story.

"No," she answered after a brief pause, giving herself time to reflect. "The night he died, he told me that he was meeting someone at a bar called The Blues Girl. He said that the person might have some important information about the case."

Mark was baffled. "The Blues Girl is in a very bad and dangerous section of the city. Your father should have known that. Why would he meet someone there?"

"Well, you didn't know my father. He had been going to these bad neighborhoods for years, helping poor kids and guiding them to make better life choices. Some of the artwork you saw in the house was done by some of the kids that my father helped. I admit that it looks ugly, but my father kept it because he loved the kids."

"It sounds like your father was a very good guy. I really don't want to disturb you, but I came here to get your father's file on the Prentiss case."

"That's the thing. Someone broke into the house a few days after his death and stole the file."

"You're kidding me?" Mark asked in disbelief. This is not how he wanted to start the case. "Did you tell the police about it?"

"Yes, but they didn't believe that someone was after the file. Since they believe that my father was drunk and on drugs the day he died, they also believe that the break-in was drug-related, and that the missing file was just a coincidence."

"I see," Mark said, feeling disappointed after hearing the surprising news. "So you don't have anything for me to review today on the Prentiss case?"

"No. Sorry. I wish I had the file too. Maybe it could have shed some light on my father's death."

_I knew it. I should have listened to my intuition. Something is not kosher, _Mark thought. "Did your father ever say anything else about the case?" Mark was grasping for any bit of information he could get from her to help him get a better understanding of what her father's file might have contained.

"No, he didn't tell me anything else," she replied, looking discouraged. Then she added, "There was a note that he wrote on a piece of paper and left in his bedroom, the evening he left for the bar. The thieves took it with them but I remember what it said."

"What did it say?" Mark asked expectantly.

"I can't tell you."

"Why is that?"

"Because I believe it has to do with my father's murder, and I will only tell someone who will help me investigate what happened."

Trying not to show his frustration, Mark asked, "Why don't you hire a private investigator?"

"I tried to hire one and he came to me a couple of days later to tell me that there was nothing he could do."

"Did you tell the private investigator about the note?"

"No. Because, at first, I didn't think that the note was important." She compressed her lips and, in a tone of frustration, she added, "I discovered that the note was missing only a couple of days ago. It was then that I realized that the thieves must have taken it when they stole the file."

Mark, who did not believe in Daniela's conspiracy theory, asked, "If that's what really happened, aren't you scared?" In reality, since he had to investigate what had happened in the case, Mark knew that he would eventually discover the truth, and not the far-fetched murder scheme that she imagined.

"I'm not scared!" Daniela declared. "I have a gun and I updated the alarm system."

"Good," Mark said, satisfied. "Now, if you tell me what was in the note, I promise that if I find any information related to your father during my investigation, I will let you know."

"It's important to me and I want to help," she insisted.

"Daniela, you and I are not private investigators," Mark said bluntly, turning down her suggestion and hoping to convince her to give up. "I can't even afford one right now. I was hoping to find the file or any information that your father might have uncovered that would help the case. Any investigation I am doing is solo. I don't want to be responsible if something were to happen to you."

"I can take care of myself," she responded, ignoring Mark's arguments. "I have a lot of money and I can pay you. All I want is to help in the investigation."

She then smiled imploringly at Mark. It was the first time she smiled since Mark had met her.

_She has a nice smile_, he thought. _It's not the time to think about romance. Sucker, don't get her involved. _"I can hire you as a paralegal. But I can't pay you," he suggested, highlighting once again the diminishing influence of his male intuition.

"I swear you won't regret it," she said with a wider smile.

"So tell me, what was in the note?" he asked anxiously.

"It was a name."

"What was the name?"

"George Ray."


	5. Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE 

When Manuel Garcia entered the small Indian restaurant for his private meeting that afternoon, it was almost empty. In his forties, and wearing a white Guayabera, he sported a dark mustache that made him look like a Hispanic actor in a Colombian coffee commercial.

He went and sat down in a far corner of the room, as he had been instructed. He then ordered a beer and waited.

No one recognized him. Usually, he would take offense to that, but not today.

The restaurant was in the western part of the City of Fort Lauderdale, more than twenty-five miles away from his home in Miami.

As the recently elected county commissioner who cast the tie vote for Atlantis Construction over Prentiss Construction, he was frustrated that the windfall that was promised to him had been delayed. Although he had received some advance money, the bulk of the money had not yet materialized.

He needed the money. He had two kids in college and a new young wife whose taste for jewelry and cosmetic surgery would match that of any Hollywood star.

He was there for only a few minutes when a woman, dressed in a colorful sari outfit, came and sat down across from him.

"Who are you? Where is Stephen?" he asked.

"Mr. Moray can't make it and he sent me instead," the woman said, as she gazed at him through brown-tinted contact lenses. She was average looking, average height, with a small birthmark on her left cheek.

"Where is my money?" he asked. "I have done what was promised and I've been waiting too long for this."

"Relax, that's why I'm here," the woman said in a casual and reassuring tone. "I brought half with me and we will talk later about the other half."

"What do you mean, we'll talk later?" Commissioner Garcia exploded, his face now very red.

He was still fuming when the waiter approached to take the woman's order. She declined. She never looked at the menu and did not have any intention of prolonging the meeting any more than was necessary.

As soon as the server departed, he berated her. "Because of me, Atlantis is going to make close to one hundred twenty-five million dollars on the contract. I'm not going to let you cheat me out of my money."

"The contract is only for seventy-five million dollars…" the woman began to protest.

"Don't play games with me," he interrupted her. "The seventy-five million dollars is what's on paper. But with added fees and extensions, Atlantis stands to make close to one hundred twenty-five million dollars on this deal. I'm not stupid."

The woman did not expect Commissioner Garcia to lose his temper. She turned and looked at the hostess behind the bar in the middle of the restaurant. Commissioner Garcia's tantrum had not gone unnoticed. The young woman was looking at them.

"Keep your voice down Mr. Garcia," she warned him. "We spent a lot of money to get you elected. For you to win after coming back from several points behind, five days before the election, was no small feat. If we start showering you with money, people will start to notice. All we want is for you to be careful."

"My upset win had nothing to do with Atlantis," he complained. He looked around the restaurant and was relieved that the hostess was now busy with another customer. The meeting place had been chosen carefully. As a politician of Cuban ancestry, he could not risk going to any Latin restaurant, even if it was that far away, due to Hispanic television news networks that covered almost all of South Florida. Since Hispanics also frequented most other types of restaurants, they had settled on this restaurant, believing Indian food would seem the most foreign to people in his district. Still, he was incensed at how he was being treated, and wanted the woman to know that. "I appreciated the confidential campaign donations, but I don't owe Atlantis anything for winning this commission seat. We had a deal regarding my vote on the contract and Atlantis now seems to be backing out."

"We are not backing out of anything," the woman told him. "Some issues have come up and we thought it would be prudent to give you part of the money now and delay the rest until everything clears up."

"There is nothing that needs to be cleared up," the commissioner said tersely.

"Yes there is, Mr. Garcia," she countered. "You don't really believe you won the election fair and square, do you?"

_If she really thinks that I'm going to admit anything, she's crazy_, Commissioner Garcia thought. "What do you mean the election wasn't fair? If you're talking about paying a few hundred people for their votes, both sides do it and it's no big deal."

Frustrated, the woman shook her head. "You know I'm not talking about that."

Commissioner Garcia, who had enough of the woman's excuses, said, "This meeting has nothing to do with the election. It has to do with money that Atlantis owes me."

Commissioner Garcia's apparent irritation caused the woman to relent a little bit, and she said, "I will talk to Mr. Moray about your unhappiness with the delay. In the meantime, if you look in the trunk of your car, the money that I brought with me is there."

"Thanks," he said grudgingly. Suddenly, he looked at the woman, who was already getting up to leave, and asked, "Wait a minute. How did you get into my car?"

"We have our ways," she said, before walking out.

###

The next day, Mark drove to the office early. He wanted to talk to Joan about hiring Daniela before Daniela showed up. He was hoping Joan would be happy that the office would get an extra set of hands. He was wrong.

"What do you mean you have a new paralegal?" Joan growled. "You barely have money to pay me. How do you expect to pay her?"

Mark, who had not seen her that upset since the day of her divorce, looked at Joan, who was standing in front of his desk with her arms crossed on her chest, and said, "Daniela is going to work for free and help us with the Prentiss case. The lawyer who used to handle the case was her father."

"Is that her only qualification?" Joan's eyes opened widely as she looked at him behind the desk. Her jaw tensed and she opened her mouth halfway before continuing to reproach him. "After you and I have been working together for so long, you didn't even bother consulting me?"

"I tried to call you late last night but you were out," Mark stammered. He was on the defensive. She had a point. Joan was more than his secretary. She had become a trusted friend.

"I'm not going to be her secretary."

"No one is asking you to, Joan," he said, trying to calm her. "Daniela will do her own work."

As they argued, they could hear the phone ringing outside, on Joan's desk. Both ignored it. It was before 9:00 a.m. and the office was not open.

Realizing that she was getting nowhere with Mark, Joan composed herself and asked, "Where are you going to put her? We don't have any space."

"I was thinking of buying a small desk and putting it in my office," he proposed. In reality, there was not much room for another desk in Mark's small office. In one corner of the room, close to his desk, he kept a file cabinet where he stored his clients' files. In the opposite corner, there was a small stand with a ceramic vase that contained a Chinese bamboo plant. It was a gift from a former client. That left the other two opposite corners by the door, which were still unoccupied and which could be used as a small space for Daniela.

"Does she have any legal experience?" Joan asked, unimpressed by Mark's explanations.

"I don't think so."

"So why is she here? Is she pretty?"

"I don't know," Mark answered, struggling with a proper response. He did not want Joan to think that he noticed Daniela's beauty. That would not sound too professional and that would be unfair to Daniela. He was going to count on her for help, not because she was pretty. "Maybe she is pretty, but that's not why I'm hiring her. You'll like her! Trust me."

"I doubt it. However, you're the boss. I'm just a secretary," Joan said, as she uncrossed her arms and lifted her shoulders in a shrug.

"Don't say that. You know that's not true. You'll get along with her. She's nice."

Joan did not respond right away. She paused before finally asking, "When is she starting?"

"In about an hour."

Looking exasperated, she turned around and headed to the door. As she was about to cross the threshold, she stopped, turned to look at him, and said, "Where are my secretarial manners? A private detective called and made an appointment to come to see you."

"When is he coming?"

"In about an hour."

###

As Mark was waiting for Daniela to come in, he decided to make his office presentable. He cleaned up his office, which meant rearranging the papers on his desk into separate piles.

Despite Joan's icy stare, he took one of the guest chairs from the reception room, brought it into his office, and placed it in the right corner of the room by the front door.

He was still fixing the chair, when he heard Daniela's voice. She was talking to Joan.

"Mark told me that you have been together for a long time."

"More like forever. He told me that you're going to be a paralegal here?"

"I told him that I wanted to help. If I can help as a paralegal, I'll be a paralegal," Daniela responded.

"I wish you luck. You can go in. Mark has been waiting for you."

When Daniela entered Mark's office, she had a big smile on her face. She had on nice blue pants with a matching jacket. She was wearing some light make up, which made her look prettier than the day before.

"What are you smiling about?" Mark asked.

"It's our first day working together. I have the feeling we're going to do great."

Mark then showed her the chair that she would be using, before walking to the file cabinet to retrieve some forms for Daniela to fill out with her contact information.

As he handed the forms on a clipboard to Daniela, she looked at the small office and said, "Did you ever think of getting a bigger office in this building? On my way here, I thought I saw some rental signs."

Her unsolicited suggestion caused Mark's jaw to drop. _I can't believe it,_ He thought, _she just got in and she is already giving me real estate advice. _

"This place is fine," Mark told her. "Besides, I can't afford a bigger space."

As he walked back to his desk, Daniela said, "I plan on paying my fair share. Maybe we can rent a larger space and I can get an office of my own."

Mark was beside himself. _On Daniela's first working day, Daniela is already making plans for her own office_, he thought.

After hearing a beep coming from Daniela's purse, he waited until Daniela switched her phone to the vibrate setting before rejecting her advice. "If we get a bigger office, what will happen after the Prentiss case is over and you leave? I will still have to pay the rent."

"I'm not planning on leaving you, Mark," Daniela replied, trying to put him at ease. "After the Prentiss case, I'll work on other cases with you."

Hearing Daniela's plan for his office almost caused Mark to faint. _I should have seen this coming_, he thought. _She's been here for only a few minutes and she's already made plans to be here permanently_. Mark started to believe that Daniela was the type of woman who would kneel and propose herself, if she wanted to get married.

Thinking about this made Mark suddenly realize that he did not know much about Daniela. Was she married? Did she have any kids? Any criminal convictions? Drug use?

Now he was worried more than ever about the Prentiss case. If he did not think about investigating his own employee, how could he expect to learn the truth in the Prentiss case where the stakes were much higher?

Mark was about to say something when he heard Joan say, "Go in. He's been waiting for you."


	6. Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

Mark did not know why he felt that way, but when private detective Harry Smiley entered his office, he looked more like an Italian mob enforcer to Mark. Granted, the name Smiley was not Italian. Nevertheless, he still looked the part.

He seemed to be in his forties and was as wide as Mark's front door. He was very short, and looked like a person who would relish a knife fight. His head was completely shaved, and he had a diamond earring in his left earlobe, with a noticeable scar on his left cheek, which made him look more menacing. _When God was distributing handsome faces to men, he must not have been present_, Mark thought.

After Harry Smiley introduced himself, he looked at Daniela, who was still seated on the corner chair, and then said to Mark, "I was hoping to talk to you alone. What I have to say is very confidential."

He wore a blue Guayabera over khaki pants that seemed too small for his huge physique, and had a booming voice, which made Mark wonder whether he was a member of the Sicilian opera, if one even existed.

"This is Daniela Curtis, my paralegal. I don't hide anything from her. Have a seat," Mark said to the private detective, while pointing to one of the two chairs facing his desk.

"I'll come right to the point, Mr. Stone," Harry said, fixing his eyes on him as soon as he was seated. "I have a client who is not too happy about you getting involved in the Prentiss case."

_How did they find out about this so fast? I have yet to do anything in the case and I'm already making someone nervous,_ Mark thought_. _That did not make him feel good_. _When he lived in New York, he had heard that the mob was involved in real estate. Hearing Harry convey his objection to Mark's involvement in this construction contract case, made Mark wonder whether the same situation existed in Florida.

It was quite possible that Harry's client had nothing to do with the mob. But whoever the client was, Mark knew that the person might be dangerous.

"Who is your client? And why would your client care about my cases?" Mark asked, as he returned Harry's gaze.

Harry waved his fat fingers, dismissing Mark's questions. "I don't reveal the names of my clients. You should know that. We know that you've had some problems getting clients lately, so my client wants to be generous and help you if you drop the case."

Mark, who expected Harry's response regarding the identity of his client, was not offended. He could see that Daniela wanted to say something, but he was glad that she didn't.

"If I agree to drop the case, how is your client going to help?" he asked, pretending to be interested in his offer.

"My client is willing to hire you and pay you sixty-five thousand dollars to write a will and a prenuptial agreement for me."

"That sounds like a bribe to me," Mark replied, amused by Harry's boldness. "I don't know anything about wills and prenuptial agreements."

Mark's reaction caused Harry to smile, which did not improve his look. _"_This is not a bribe. My client believes that if you spend time on the Prentiss case, you won't have time to do the necessary research to learn about this type of law to be able to create these legal documents for me."

"I see," Mark said pensively. "If I take your case, what happens to the Prentiss case?"

"That's my point," Harry said, widening his smile. Mark was expecting to see nicotine-stained teeth. Surprisingly however, he was wrong.

Harry continued, "The Prentiss case will conflict with my interests and, as you know, an attorney can't keep cases that have conflicting interests. You will have to choose."

"Those are some expensive legal documents," Mark observed, as he twiddled his thumbs over the desk.

"What can I say?" Harry replied, with satisfaction in his voice. "We believe in your ability to create these documents and we want to pay you well for them."

"So who is hiring us, you or your client?" Daniela asked, which prompted both of them to look at her. She had been silent and they had almost forgotten that she was in the room.

"Me, of course," Harry said, shifting on his seat to take a closer look at Daniela. "You see, I am not rich, Ms. Curtis. My client is just a friend who wants to help me to have a will and a prenuptial agreement to protect my interests."

"I can see how you would have a lot of interests to protect," Daniela said. If she was mocking him, it did not show. "When is the wedding?"

"The date has not been set yet," Harry replied. He paused momentarily, as if he was giving some thought to Daniela's question. "In fact, I haven't made any decision about who the bride is going to be. But I will definitely need the prenup in advance. All I will have to do then is to just write in her name, when the right woman comes along."

"I see!" Mark said, stroking his chin_. If I had listened to my gut, I would not be here facing bribery and possible mafia involvement in this case_, he thought. "I'm sorry, Mr. Smiley. I can't help because I've already accepted the Prentiss case. You can come back after I'm finished with the case. I can write the papers for you at that time.

He shifted back in his seat to face Mark. "I'm afraid that's not possible. It might be too late. I might have died or gotten married."

"I can see how your death or an emergency wedding could ruin your life."

"I'm glad you understand," Harry replied with a smug smile, ignoring Mark's sarcasm.

Harry's facial expression annoyed Mark further. He got up from behind his desk, signaling that the conversation was over. "Death and marriage can be so cruel. But I'm sorry, I can't help you."

"Too bad," Harry said, also getting up. "You're making a mistake. My client is very powerful and is not going to be happy about this."

"Did you make this offer to John Curtis too?" Daniela asked.

Harry frowned, turned slightly to look at Daniela, and asked, "Who is John Curtis?"

"John Curtis was the attorney who was previously handling the Prentiss case, and Daniela is his daughter," Mark said. He figured that if the mob was connected to the death of Daniela's father, Harry might be caught off-guard and reveal some hint of emotion, confirming the connection. However, Harry, who was still looking at Daniela, remained impassive.

"I've heard about the lawyer named Curtis," Harry said. "I'm sorry about his death. He did a lot of good in this community, but I never met him. Besides, he was very wealthy. Why would he need sixty-five thousand dollars?"

Harry's last statement made Mark feel cheap. Suddenly, Mark had an idea and, instead of responding, he looked at Daniela and said, "Daniela, put the clipboard down and let's walk Mr. Smiley to the elevator."

Daniela, who didn't know why Mark was being so polite to a guy who had just tried to bribe him, got up, left the papers behind, and followed both of them to the elevator, which was around the corner.

Mark and Daniela shook hands with him, and as soon as the elevator door closed behind Harry, Mark quickly said, "Let's go! We need to reach the parking garage before he gets there."

Before Daniela could object, Mark was already running toward the stairs. Daniela rushed after Mark, and they both ran down the flights of stairs.

Daniela was lucky that she was not wearing high heels. "Do you really believe that we'll get there before him?" she asked, as she sprinted after Mark.

"You've seen how slow the elevator is," he replied, as they reached the final flight of stairs that led to the parking garage.

Mark had left his jacket in his office and Daniela did not get a chance to pick up her purse. When they entered the garage under the building, Mark rushed toward his old Toyota Camry.

He pulled out the keys from his front pocket and used the remote control to open the doors for them. They were both out of breath when they got into the car.

Mark sat behind the wheel and waited. Daniela, who was sitting in the front passenger seat next to him, asked him, "What was that all about?"

"I'm thinking that after we rejected his offer, he might have to go somewhere to meet someone to report what happened. If he does, we might be able to discover who his client is."

"So we're going to follow him?" Daniela asked, skeptically. "What if he calls his client instead?"

"It's worth a shot," he replied. "We don't have anything to lose."

Soon afterwards, they saw Harry enter the parking garage. He got into a blue Ford Taurus and drove out of the building.

They followed him at a distance as he drove north toward the criminal courthouse building, which was several miles away from the civil courthouse in downtown Miami. Mark passed the criminal courthouse and drove a few blocks past the nearby Jackson Memorial Hospital, until they reached an old two-story office building, with a small parking lot in front. The building was painted light yellow and had several bail bond signs up front. One sign also read "Harry Smiley, P.I."

"Damn, we followed him to his office," Mark said, as they saw him park his car and enter the building. "I guess you're right. He was talking on his cell phone. Maybe he already called his client."

"Let's wait to see if he comes out," Daniela suggested, as they watched from across the street. "You might still be right."

They waited for another ten minutes. They were about to give up, when Harry came out. He got into his car and drove a few more blocks to a strip mall. He then got out and entered a barbershop.

Mark was speechless. He watched him sit in the barber chair and realized that the trip was wasted.

"I can't believe it. It's 10:30 in the morning and the guy is getting a haircut," he swore under his breath. "He doesn't even have any hair."

"Let's go back. We have to figure out something else," Daniela advised.

"No. Let's go to his office," Mark proposed. "He must have a file there on his client."

"What are you going to do?" Daniela asked suspiciously. "Do you think his secretary will just allow us to come in and look at his file?"

"I don't know, but I'll think of something to say," Mark answered. He did not have a clue how he was going to do it, but he was determined to find out who Harry's client was. He believed that knowing the identity of the client might be the key to the case, and even to finding out if Daniela's father was really murdered.

###

They drove back quickly to the building and parked in one of the guest parking spots before going in. Harry's office was on the first floor. It was the last office on the right at the end of a long hallway. There was a small sign on the door with Harry's name on it.

They tried to turn the knob to enter, but the door was locked. Mark then knocked on the door, but there was no response. The building was old and the door frame was not completely flush with the door.

"I have a flat screw driver in my car. I think I can use it to push the spindle back inside the door to pull the door open," Mark suggested.

Daniela's eyes grew wide. "Are you trying to break in?" She was dismayed by Mark's suggestion.

Mark, who was trying to convince himself that he had the courage to do it, said, "Harry is at the barbershop. It will take him about forty-five minutes to finish. All I want is to quickly search his files or his desk to find out who his client is. It won't take long. We're talking about possible murder."

"I still don't think it's a good idea," Daniela said. She was shaken and conflicted by Mark's proposition. On the one hand, she wanted to find out who her father's murderer was. On the other hand, she did not want to break the law.

Sensing Daniela's hesitation, Mark said, "Wait here while I get the screw driver from my car. I'll be right back."

When Mark returned, it did not take him long to open the door. Harry's office was a small room, with the desk by the only window in the room. The shades were pulled down and it was dark inside.

Mark flipped the switch by the door to turn on the lights. There were three chairs in the room. Two were guest chairs and one was Harry's chair, which was behind the desk. Like the desk, all of the chairs were full of papers.

"I've got a bad feeling about this," Daniela said, as she reluctantly entered the office behind Mark.

"We'll only be here for few minutes, tops. I promise," Mark said. He quickly walked over to Harry's desk and started shuffling through the papers.

Daniela did not move. She was standing in the middle of the room in fear. Mark then suggested that she go over to the file cabinet in the corner of the room to look through the files.

The top drawer was unlocked. Daniela pulled the drawer out and was getting ready to grab the first file, when the police showed up.


	7. Chapter 7

**This is the end of the preview. Thanks for reading. To purchase the book, please visit Amazon at:**

**.com/dp/B007LO8N0W**


	8. Chapter 8

The Kappa File is now on Kindle. There is a free promotion going until October 30, 2012. Hurry and download it for free at

dp/B007LO8N0W 


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